Full of Grace
by le-ouiaboo
Summary: France/Marianne, France/England/Marianne: de-anon from the kink meme, how France met the personification of La Republique Francaise, and their relationship throughout the years.


Full of Grace

* * *

**..Dawn...**

He first saw her during the Reign of Terror, the young woman who haunted the edges of his fevered vision, the sole smiling face to be found in the midst of the shouting, suffering masses. From the tip of her scarlet cap to the heels of her worn out leather boots, she was the embodiment of defiance and self-assured enlightenment, all swaggering hips, boldness defined. Though he could barely keep himself together through the clouds of paranoia and pantaloon-soiling terror, he thought of the woman fondly, and wished to discover her name so that he could refer to her as something other than 'that troublesome bitch.'

He got his wish sooner than expected. The elegant and ever-classy France was in the middle of vomiting up his breakfast into a bucket when the young republic came calling, waltzing into the dank little room as if she owned the place. Of course, he only realized who and what she was once he felt her fingers brush the matted dirty hair out of his face. There was no mistaking that sudden electric shock at her touch, and the nausea came back even stronger than before as the remaining contents of his stomach tried to make a break for it. Taking a deep breath, France gathered enough sense to ask her if she sprang from his mind dressed in full armor like Pallas reborn, seeing as that could explain his splitting headache.

She laughed, a rich full-throated sound that did not belong in such dismal surroundings, and then patted his arm soothingly.

"No, I am not her. Only Marianne, at your service." She nodded, hardly respectful but trying anyway, and while distrustful of her intentions, he could not help but admire her handsome features, lush red lips, loose black curls, as dark as he was fair. "I think you know who I am?"

"You've come to replace me," he whispered dryly, wondering why he was still alive to be subjected to this humiliation. "Because I have failed to keep myself together. The irony of it does not escape me, you know." He smiled bitterly and wondered if _that girl_ would forgive him for having the worthless king and his wasteful queen executed, so that the rest may have a (very small) chance of a better life, for dismantling what she fought to make whole - it seemed so disrespectful to her precious memory.

Marianne sat down on the filthy mattress, regarding him with brilliant hazel eyes. "Do you really believe that? You don't think the two of us can coexist? Look, I was born to help you, and I shall, whether you want me to or not." She placed a hand over his, leaning in closer, to devastating effect. "So why don't we try first, dearest France, before thinking of surrender? Let's try, and together, we could bring this land out of misery and into glory, as destiny intended."

Oh, he doubted it would work - he had never heard of such a thing, or at least no other nation admitted to such a dilemma - but his flagging attention kept drifting downwards, to her next most attractive features. With a shrug, France finally said, "Very well, let us try… Things can not possibly get any worse, right?"

In response, he received an enthusiastic hug and kiss, followed by an exclamation that he absolutely needed to take a bath before the century ended. Before France could muster up the energy to protest, he found himself sitting naked in a tub of increasingly dirty water, getting his back scrubbed by his sister/daughter/replacement. Marianne rinsed the grime out of his hair and skin, humming that bloodthirsty anthem while he sat still and tried to not look too embarrassed about needing yet another young woman to extract him out of the mess he made.

After drying himself off, France would have liked nothing more than to rest, but she had already returned with a set of clean and definitely lower-class clothing.

"Here, put these on, and hurry. I think we'll need to leave very soon. Like now."

He made a face, but as the master of swift exits, he put on the shirt and pants and fashionable clogs without argument, and helped his lovely accomplice out the window. Somehow they missed landing into the large pile of horse manure – apparently that was the reason for the clogs - and with encouraging words and occasional slaps to the back of his aching head, Marianne led France out into the dawn of a new republic.

* * *

**...Noon...**

Several years later, they ran into each other on the road, he in full officer dress and riding a magnificent stallion, she holding a basket of fruit to sell in the market. For a few seconds, they could only stare in shock, having lost track of each other during the desperate rally to set things right after the chaos of the revolution.

Then she threw a tomato at him. It splattered over his spotless uniform jacket, quickly staining the gold braid red.

"That was a waste of food, Marianne. Children are starving… somewhere."

"Ungrateful wretch! A more arrogant Judas I have yet to see! I hope you burn in the agony of mysterious diseases you've contracted from foreign prostitutes!" She paused to take a breath and continued in a slightly calmer tone. "You've risen so fast, France, simpering at the feet of your little emperor. Your _liberté, egalité, fraternité_- tossed aside for a man who treats Europe like a game to be won. Have you forgotten about me, Marianne, who helped you when you thought you were going to die?"

"_Ma couer_, I could not forget about you even if I tried," France said diplomatically.

"I know what you really mean, bastard, I'm the same as you, remember?" She seemed to be working herself back up into a fine temper and was reining it back with difficulty. Sighing deeply, she said in an otherwise reasonable tone. "France… you have gone mad…"

He nodded in agreement – after all, he was talking to a female version of himself, even England could not come up with a more original way to act insane and that one talked to fairies. "On the other hand, most mad people do not believe they are mad."

"You will lose everything we have fought for." Despite the rash of incredible victories, the emperor would not be able to maintain his empire. They both knew this, with sickening certainty.

"At least I shall lose fashionably."

She threw a tomato at him as a parting gift, this time rotten, so as to not waste the good tomatoes. He rode off to rejoin the legion with her curses still ringing in his ears.

* * *

**...Afternoon...**

"Well… France is technically not an empire anymore…"  
"No."  
"But you are still angry with me?"  
"Correct."

* * *

**...Dusk...**

When Marianne next rose to influence, it was only for a brief while. But he could rest now, after the terror that infected the whole of the continent and brought the shadow of death over his fellow nations.

He loved the sight of Marianne then, she had never looked so beautiful, so awe-inspiring. She stood tall and regal, the Phrygian cap bright against her black hair, one breast bared for some reason he could not fathom but which he entirely approved of, the red and white and blue flag streaming in the wind behind her impressive silhouette. Her expression was serious, as if recognizing the pain and turmoil that her birth had wrought, but her eyes glowed with a passionate love for _les citoyens_, her children.

Though the second empire would put her underground in just a few years, her presence was now deeply engrained into the minds of the people, and what she symbolized a (nearly) universally recognized right.

She would not die so easily, and neither would he.

* * *

**...Evening...**

Sitting on the edge of the hotel bed, France watched Marianne arrange her hair, admiring her shapely image in the full-length mirror. Because it was a very important, very stubborn person she would be courting tonight, her colors glowed more vividly than ever, full lips a vibrant crimson, eyes glittering like gold-flecked tourmalines, an excited flush staining her cheeks. Marianne would stun him, seduce him, win him over before the first hour of their meeting passed. She must, if they were to survive.

Right now she was wearing only a silk chemise that barely covered her hips, creamy round shoulders left exposed to kisses, and he got up to promptly indulge himself to those, breathing in the musky scent of her perfume. The republic giggled and leaned back against him with a sigh that would fell any young man caught staring at her bosom.

"Do you find me irresistible?" she asked, batting long eyelashes at his reflection.

"Of course, I do, _ma cherie_. But then again, you are me." France leaned forward to press his lips against her cheek, one hand sliding across her thighs, squeezing with the slightest bit of pressure and causing her to squeal girlishly. He chuckled, soft and indulgent, and glanced at the figures mirroring their actions. How ravishing the two of them looked together, his sunlight hair tangling into her midnight waves, her luscious curves contrasting with the spare clean lines of his limbs.

That repressed little island was as good as theirs.

So before the end of the night, the papers were signed, the terms hammered out, past differences almost but not quite resolved. Both France and England, under the shadow of a greater threat to the east, had agreed to not immediately fight at the slightest provocation, ending nearly a thousand years of enmity and war.

"Jolly good," England muttered, his face reddening as he tried his best to not look at Marianne's practically bare breasts or even worse, France's triumphant smirk.

Oh, England had protested at first, called them depraved, indecent, sex-obsessed, refused to even take off his hat once they cornered him in the lavish suite with the intent of "sealing" their secret alliance, to make sure he would not change his mind later. But France was not one to give up, at least not in this area, and between the two of them, they soon had England naked and tangled in the sheets, cursing and begging and screaming until he was hoarse. Jolly good indeed.

"Wasn't this a wonderful idea?" she murmured, after England had drifted off to sleep, his cheek pillowed against her breasts. In the light of their mutual afterglow, she looked gorgeous, and he envied his fellow nation very much at that moment.

"_Oui_, of course," he agreed softly, combing through England's hair with his fingers, like he used to do when they were children, so very long ago. "Thank you for your assistance, Marianne. I may not have succeeded so thoroughly without your unfailing logic."

"I would do anything for you, dear France," she whispered, her voice serious. "I would sleep with anyone. I'd lie or beg or steal or even kill, anything to save the republic."

He regarded her thoughtfully, knowing she had killed before, and would not hesitate to do so again. "Hopefully, you won't have to do any of that. It is not a woman's place to risk her life, or to take one."

"But I am no ordinary woman, and I am not fighting for an ordinary purpose."

France buried his nose into England's thick hair to hide his smile, causing the other to hunch his shoulder involuntarily. "No, you are right, Marianne."

Drowsily, England told them to shut up and find something else to do with their mouths. The two of them obeyed at once, and much to his regret, he enjoyed it exceedingly.

* * *

**...Midnight...**

He heard a woman yelling and struggling somewhere outside of his isolated cell, where they sometimes locked him up whenever Germany had no more use for him, and with some effort, he tried to block out the sound. It was an all too familiar situation, now that the new regime stepped up its efforts to rid the state of any resistance movements. Part of him, the cowardly part, wished that the woman would just stop fighting and take it, so that he may have some quiet. The other part of him hoped that the sudden silence meant that she had somehow killed herself rather than suffer such dishonor.

To his surprise, two harried soldiers wrestled the woman through the doorway of his cell, and then left without a word, locking the door behind them. France got to his hands and knees, trembling from weakness, his heart sinking, dropping like a lead weight.

"Marianne…" he whispered, as he gently cradled her body in his arms. "I told you to not come back for me. So why didn't you listen?"

Her eyes fluttered open at the sound of his voice, and she looked up into his face adoringly. With a painfully sweet smile, Marianne said, "I would never give up on you, you moron. Besides, I did it, what you said. The resistance is still strong, no matter what Vichy may have told everyone." She coughed, but continued, stronger this time, her smile wider. "And I've returned to tell you that England will come. He will save us, France will be freed."

Yet France found no comfort in her words, worried that the guards were listening, though he also suspected that the guards had grown deaf from ignoring him for so long. "Marianne, dearest," he said kindly, "England would not dare risk that, not for me. I… I would not depend on him."

"No, he will come. He promised!" She sat up now, and while she was not as badly injured as he had feared, her eyes were shadowed with exhaustion, her cheeks as gaunt as his, her beautiful body scarred and bruised from fighting, and after Paris fell, from running her dangerous missions. "Don't you trust me? Him? Why are you acting like this?"

"England has to protect his own borders before he could even think of fighting Germany here. Even with America's help, I just don't think…" he trailed off gloomily.

She hit him on the forehead like she used to do, making him wince. "Of course you don't think, if you thought more, we would not be in this mess! _Mon dieu_, this is not what I expected to hear after all I went through in order to return to you."

"_Desole…"_ He sighed and sat cross-legged on the floor, while she laid down on her side, staring at him with haunted eyes.

"It's good to see you again, Marianne."

"And you, France, you look as handsome and stylish as ever, in your prisoner rags," she replied politely.

"I do my best with what I am given…"

Not knowing what else to do, he curled up beside her and reached over with one hand to touch her face, to wipe away the tears welling up in her eyes. As much torment as he had suffered at the hands of the Nazis and his new government, he would endure it all again to spare her the same. But God did not listen to his prayers, not anymore, and his beautiful Marianne suffered as he did, starved as he did, abused and pushed to the brink, to assuage Germany's wounded pride and his need to make things right.

"France?"

"Yes, love?"

"I am so tired of fighting…" she whispered in a tiny voice. "I thought the last one… would be the last."

"I know."

She took a deep shuddering breath, as if preparing to say something that hurt. "The women, they are not whores, you know. I've talked to them, and they just… they don't want to see anyone else suffering. They - they have no choice but to go along, to save their children, to protect the families with no fathers or sons or brothers…" She paused, closing her eyes for a few seconds, sniffling into her sleeve. "They are not whores," she repeated stubbornly, as if it would change history.

"No one thinks that, Marianne," he lied. She was not looking at him, so perhaps she believed him.

"You're not one, either."

He snorted, a little saddened to see how quickly she rose to his defense, when everyone else seemed reluctantly slow. "I thank you for such noble words, _ma belle_, but that was not necessary. There is no shame in trying to survive."

And because they were the same, she understood what he really meant, that his life was one long struggle to survive against the odds, all to make that girl's sacrifice worth something, to give honor to the one he learned to love too late. Because she knew this, she could forgive him his actions.

"Hey, sing me a song, France. I miss your singing."

"My voice is not so pretty anymore."

"I don't mind."

"What shall I sing, then? A lullaby?"

"Yes, please, sing my favorite first. You know, the one in which the blood of my enemies waters the ground."

He grinned despite their hopeless situation, despite the fact that they may not survive, and sitting up, with his back straight and chin lifted, he started off with La Marseillaise. She joined in, a light soprano drifting along his deeper baritone, not stopping even after their guards finally shouted at them to desist.

"_Liberté, Liberté chérie, combats avec tes défenseurs!"_

They went through all the verses, then started on the other anthems, their voices sure and confident in the face of utter despair, making sure the others would hear. As fighting and surrendering and groveling and submitting did not help, so they sang for their life.

"_Merci_, that was the most fun I've had in a while." Without waiting for his reply, she threw her arms around him, and they held each other tightly, not knowing if they would ever get the chance to again.

"Where are you going now?" he asked, once he realized she was not going to sleep.

"Give me a boost, will you? I think I can squeeze through," she said, throwing one arm over the window sill. He shook his head in half-horrified amusement, remembering the day they first met, and did his best to help her up. Fortunately, the gap just barely accommodated her slender form, and she was able to escape without drawing any attention.

"Be safe," he told her, as sternly as he could.

Rather cheekily, she blew him a kiss through the window and whispered, "Sleep well, my fair country. Tomorrow will be a better day. _Ça ira, ça ira!_"

* * *

**A New Day**

The only hint that she had been there was the faint scent of lilies in the air, like the brief memory of a wonderful dream right before you forget it.

France got to his feet, the lazy smile on his face illuminated by the rising sun's light. Today will be a good day, he could tell, and tomorrow even better.

* * *

[Author's Note: another oldie but goldie, this request was about the other personification of France, Marianne, and the two of them singing patriotic songs. I really liked doing the research for this one and not just because I like looking at hot topless French babes. For those of you who need a brush-up on French history, Dawn was after the execution of King Louis XVI and Marie Antoinette, Noon was during the reign of Napoleon Bonaparte, Afternoon was duh, after Waterloo, Dusk was after the second empire, Evening was the Entente Cordiale and Midnight was obviously during the Occupation and World War II. Hope you enjoyed! I did. _Hot topless French babes._]


End file.
